The first year of the war passed with comparatively little change at
“White Point,” but towards the middle of the second year the trouble
which had been brewing among the negroes for some time gave way to open
rebellion; and had it not been for Sallie Tom’s wonderful and cunjuring
influence over them, they would have left long before they did. Under
Mrs. Tayloe’s and Dorothy’s oversight, much of the farming had been kept
up; but towards the second harvesting it became evident that trouble
was ahead. A negro agitator and so-called preacher had appeared in the
village near by, and so great was the effect of his haranguing that the
entire neighborhood was demoralized, and nightly meetings were held down
at the cross-roads. Sallie Tom was constable-in-chief of the “White
Point” contingent, and every night she stationed herself in the road
usually taken by the servants and hands on their way to the meetings, a
gun in one hand and a pistol in the other, ready to shoot the first one
who passed. Every negro on the place believed in her cunjuring power,
and they would no sooner have thought of passing than of trying to ride
the moon. Things were beginning to look desperate. Even the loyal and
good servants showed signs of dissatisfaction under the influence of the
agitators, until finally only Dorothy’s old mammy Rachel, Jessie, the
dining-room servant, Uncle Lias, the carriage driver, and Sallie Tom
remained deaf to the promises of good fortune and prosperity advanced by
the younger element.
It was on a clear, bright October morning, that the result of all their
meetings and plannings were realized. Mrs. Tayloe and Dorothy came
down as usual, and found Sallie Tom and the three other servants drawn
up in line outside the dining-room door. Sallie Tom was almost wild
with excitement and anger. “They’re gone!” she cried, waving her hand
violently in the direction of the quarters, her voice trembling and her
whole body quivering. “They’re gone, every one of them—gone like thieves
in the night. They have took all their things, and six of the horses,
mos’ all the corn, and Gord A’mighty knows what else. Oh, Lordy!” she
went on, “to think of all the trouble what’s come to us ’count of dat
monstrous inturfurence bizness of them Yankees! To think I uver should
er lived to see my missus done treated so by niggers! Oh, Lord A’mighty,
what we gwine to do anyhow?” And Sallie Tom for the moment lost her
courage in the face of the dread possibilities of the future.
Mrs. Tayloe turned white to the lips, and Dorothy caught her hands and
held them in her own strong, tender ones.
“I suppose it had to come,” she said presently, nervously pressing
Dorothy’s hands in her own. “I am thankful it is no worse. We must do the
best we can, and not let the gentlemen know. Ah, no, we must not let the
gentlemen know!” Her voice broke, and she hurried back to her room, and
they left her there, for they knew it was best that she should be alone
for awhile.
It was Dorothy’s turn to advise and lead now. With all the courage and
hope of youth she began to take charge of the place. With the help of
the others she managed to keep up part of the farm, and from one end to
the other she rode daily on her horse, sometimes with saddle, sometimes
bareback. A new fear was beginning to grow in her heart. Every dollar on
earth possessed by both her father and Mr. Tayloe had been invested in
Confederate bonds, and she knew that very soon their purchasing value
would be of little account.
That they should ever suffer she did not allow herself to think; but it
was necessary to husband every resource, and every energy must be bent
toward keeping from Bobbie’s mother as long as possible the seriousness
of the situation. Life was by no means now a thing of ease or pleasure
to Dorothy. The days became weeks, and the weeks months, and the months
were becoming years, and the clouds which at first they thought would
be but temporary, were continually growing blacker and heavier, with
never a sign of lifting. It was not until the Christmas of ’63 that
any real alarm, however, was actually felt as to the outlook. By a
long-planned and well-timed scheme Mr. Tayloe, who now through successive
ranks had been promoted to that of colonel, and Dr. Trevillian, now a
surgeon-in-chief, had managed to get leave for a two days’ visit home,
the first they had been able to make together since they entered the
service. Bobbie’s movements were uncertain. He would be there, he wrote,
were it a matter of possibility, but he might be kept for some special
duty. He had managed to run in for a day or so at intervals of every few
months, and consequently was better prepared for the present condition of
things than were the others.
All through the three long years there never had been a time when it was
possible for him and Dorothy to be married. When he was at home, her
father and his were away, and he could never induce her to marry him
unless all were there.
Every effort was made to make this Christmas a memorable one. Mrs.
Tayloe’s happiness at having her husband home once more gave her a fresh
measure of strength, and the very best that had been carefully saved and
hoarded for many months past was now made into the good things of former
Christmas times; and though Dorothy knew they would have to stint for
months to come, yet she never let any one but Sallie Tom realize how
reckless it all was.
Sallie Tom’s joy at having once more a pretence of Christmas festivities
made itself known by her own peculiar way of snorting as she prepared
the various dishes that were best liked by the master and the Doctor,
to say nothing of those she surreptitiously made for Bobbie, in case he
should come. That he would come, she never doubted, and all day long on
Christmas-eve she had her ears, as well as her eyes, open to catch the
first sound of his horse’s hoofs on the frozen ground outside.
Colonel Tayloe and his wife had stayed much in their room, talking over
matters of minutest detail as to the new life of each, while Dorothy and
her father had a long talk after the latter’s return from “Grey Cliffs,”
where he had spent most of the day. He had brought back her mother’s
portrait, and told her he wanted it put in her room. “There is no telling
what may happen,” he said, trying, however, to speak cheerfully. “There
may be trouble around here yet. The negroes seem to be going crazy. Only
two are over there now—old Israel and his wife. I have buried all the
silver and a few other things,” and he told her where he had hidden them.
“I want you to understand about everything, Dorothy. You know it will all
be yours some day, and there is no telling”—he stopped abruptly at the
sight of the sad, pained face. “Don’t look that way, Dorothy, daughter,”
he went on, softly stroking the hand he held in both of his. “When the
end comes to me don’t grieve, but be glad, glad for me; for I’ve wanted
to go for a long time, except for leaving you, and I know that is all
right now. Bobbie has proven himself to be a soldier worthy of the cause
for which he fights, and I have been proud of him—very proud. I have made
you both wait much longer than I intended, but I did it to be satisfied,
and I am satisfied at last. I have lived for so many years with only the
memory of a past and the hope of a future that I am longing for the NOW
of her presence.” He paused for a moment, and Dorothy dared not trust
herself to speak; she could only cling to him in mute understanding of
the loneliness of his life. He stroked her hair softly, and after awhile
continued: “You have been the comfort of my life, my daughter—my dear
little daughter—but you will understand some day, and I only want you not
to grieve should the fate of some of those poor lads come to me. You know
I am on the field sometimes—you will remember, child—and go now and see
that everything is ready for Bobbie’s coming, for I am sure he will be
here, and when he comes I want to have a talk with him.”
She kissed her father in silence again and again, and then she left the
room; but the awful possibilities which his words suggested filled her
with unutterable sorrow and loneliness, and, like a child that longs for
warmth and cheer and comforting, she sank down on the rug in front of the
big blazing fire, and her lips quivered in her great longing for Bobbie.
She clasped her knees loosely with her hands, and the flames danced
merrily up and down before her blurred eyes. The corners of the room were
lost in shadows, and the flicker of the firelight played upon the walls.
It would be such a relief to give way and have a good cry. She bit her
lip to keep it back; and then she heard a little noise, and somebody had
his arms about her and was down on his knees beside her, and outside she
could hear Sallie Tom snorting, and Bobbie was telling her, almost out of
breath, that he had ridden like the wind all day and all night just to
spend a few hours with her and why didn’t she speak to him and tell him
she was glad to see him? And all she could do at first was to cling to
him, and let all the pent-up feeling and anxiety of the months past come
out between the laughter and tears; and Bobbie understood it all, and
soothed and quieted her as only he could do, and in a little while she
was her own brave self, and was making him answer a dozen questions at
once. She might have kept it up indefinitely had he not told her he was
starving, and that sent her flying for Sallie Tom.
It promised to be such a happy Christmas, after all. The knowledge that
this brief return of other days could last but a short while made every
moment precious, and such old-time doings as Bobbie insisted upon keeping
up made them forget for a few hours at least, the serious outlook for the
future. It was just before dinner on Christmas Day that Bobbie came to
Dorothy with a face full of intensely repressed feeling. She was standing
by the big window in the library watching the snow, now fast falling and
thickly covering the ground, and he went up to her and took both of her
hands in his. “Dorothy,” he said quietly, “has your father said anything
to you to-day about our marriage?”
“Not a word,” she answered, turning quickly and searching his face for
the meaning of the new light there. “We must not worry him about it,
Bobbie; he has had so much sorrow in his life that I dare not ask him to
give me entirely to you. We can afford to wait.”
“But if he says he wishes it, now, to-day, would you be willing?” He
drew her down on the sofa by him. “I have just had a long talk with
your father,” he continued, “and he told me that he would like us to be
married at once, while he is at home and we are all together.” He almost
crushed her hands in his as he waited her answer, controlling by a great
effort, his old boyish and imperious impatience.
“Dear father,” she said, and her eyes were full of tears, “I must see
him first, and then I will tell you, Bobbie. It is so sudden; and to
be married in such a hurry don’t seem just right somehow.” His look of
disappointment reproached her. She put her hand upon his face in the
quaint way peculiar to herself for just a moment, and then she drew
herself away.
She would not let him go with her, and it was fully half an hour before
she came back, bringing her father with her. Both showed the traces of
how tender had been the talk between them, and both were very quiet. Dr.
Trevillian led her to Bobbie, and put her hands in his. “She agrees to
our plans, my son,” he said, trying to speak brightly, and then he turned
abruptly and left them alone.
“You are not marrying your general, Dorothy,” said Bobbie, presently.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Send off his scout to-night to report to _his_ general for new orders,”
she answered, trying to speak bravely, “but now we must hurry,” and her
face colored richly as she ran out of the room.